When Malik crossed the border into Liorra, it was raining — the kind of clean rain that carried no dust. He stood under the glass canopy of the immigration hall, clutching his worn-out passport, trying to hide the tremor in his hands. Behind him was everything he knew; ahead of him, everything he hoped might make sense.
He had left a country that no longer remembered how to breathe. The Republic of Olandria — once proud, now sick with corruption so thick it seeped through every pore. Jobs were traded for loyalty. Dreams were currency no one accepted anymore. His father, a schoolteacher, had spent thirty years grading the papers of students who would grow up only to sell their votes.
Malik had...
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